


but the look in your eyes: I could die here tonight

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: (i guess), Angst, First Time, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Rough Sex, Slight D/s Elements, Smut, Troffy - Freeform, Uni AU, Unrequited Love, really bad coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith grips his pencil more tightly and grits his teeth while he tries to put the thoughts out of his head. He needs to stay on task, as pleasant as escaping from his work for a few seconds might be. In an effort to relax into his work again, he tilts his head back and rolls his neck to stretch the muscles there, sighing heavily.</p><p>The more he tries, though, the more his thoughts seem to wonder, always finding a way back to his roommate. He knows exactly why the thoughts of his friend are so obstinate in his mind, recognises fully the fact that it's a crush, similar to all the crushes on girls he's had before. But different. Because he's a guy. Not that that's a problem - of course not. He just never thought he'd ever fancy a guy, when for all intents and purposes, he's seemed straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but the look in your eyes: I could die here tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: that time I wrote something that wasn't Hatsome?! Yes, you're just as shocked as I am. :p
> 
> Well, this was the fic I was talking about in the notes of my previous fic. Given it's around 5k, there'll probably be mistakes, but given everything I write is unbetaed, please bear with me. The title is from Tokyo House Party, by good old Area 11.
> 
> Anyway, I felt I should post this quickly, and then make sure to let you know that dues to school starting very soon, and me going into sixth form, means my stuff will be even more infrequent and unpredictable. But any time I get, I will try to write and post.
> 
> So yeah. Who wanted some angsty uni au troffy with rough sex which somehow sublimes directly into non-sexual intimacy? Just me? Okay.
> 
> Enjoy!

Smith's sat to the table, attempting desperately to just keep his eyes angled downwards to the coursework on the table that's due soon. Way too soon; the coming week has deadlines looming. He can be a good worker if he puts his mind to it, can be diligent and focused - even if he's not getting top marks, he's still doing well in his studies. It's just that usually, either his attempts at a social life, or his dedication to his PC, usually come before the tedium of coursework.

He's quite a bit behind because of this, even when he tries setting aside time to write. Usually on Saturday mornings, Smith makes himself coffee, sits down in the flat's kitchen, and forces himself to write without distraction for half an hour. After that time, his thoughts seem to become less intrusive, less central to himself. Normally on a day such as today, his essays will be done in one sitting.

And indeed, for the first hour, his progress is decent. The urge to check his phone for messages, or to stand up, do something else, goes acknowledged but not acted upon. The rest of his brain idly ticks over, going quiet behind the part that's concentrated on the heavy lines he's scrawling onto the grey-lined page. But more and more often, he finds himself considering the dullness of the sky, that his coffee might just be cool enough to drink, the fact that he hasn't seen his housemate this morning, because he's secluded himself into this room and his friend is kind enough to not disturb him... 

Smith grips his pencil more tightly and grits his teeth while he tries to put the thoughts out of his head. He needs to stay on task, as pleasant as escaping from his work for a few seconds might be. In an effort to relax into his work again, he tilts his head back and rolls his neck to stretch the muscles there, sighing heavily.

The more he tries, though, the more his thoughts seem to wonder, always finding a way back to his roommate. He knows exactly why the thoughts of his friend are so obstinate in his mind, recognises fully the fact that it's a crush, similar to all the crushes on girls he's had before. But different. Because he's a guy. Not that that's a problem - of course not. He just never thought he'd ever fancy a guy, when for all intents and purposes, he's seemed straight. 

The problem is feeling like this when it's about a roommate who you think - but can't be sure - is straight, and even then would probably not be that into you. And who you quite appreciate the company of after a year of getting to know them. Even if the crush is very much one-sided, unrequited. And Christ, he doesn't want a different housemate. He doesn't think he can bear pushing Trott away by letting the guy know how he feels, end up seeing him for the next two years around other people. It already hurts when he's so close as this, and he can't have him. If the brunet has to leave, the distance will make his misery tenfold.

He knows it's a crush. Certain. It has all the little pointers - him lavishing hidden attention on the brunet when he knows Trott can't see him. Barely looking at him when he's addressed by the other man, and having to remind himself to let their eyes meet, the accompanying jump in his chest when they do. There's other things. He suddenly loves brown eyes, brown hair. Call him shallow, but Trott's so far outside of his perceived type that even some of his friends at home who had their suspicions on his sexuality when he approached them for advice, had never once guessed the brunet might be his infatuation. And Smith knows all of the man's mannerisms, his idiosyncrasies; he can read the man's face and body so well - can tell when he's secretly pleased, or hurt by a joke at his expense but trying not to show it - and yet he still can't tell if the other man is attracted to him or not.

Sometimes he ends up obsessing over situations, replaying them in his mind - maybe that the other man smiles at him a bit too warm for a bit too long, or that an interaction seems strained, or forced. Or even more suggestive than usual. He knows they both make crude jokes. It's just sometimes the other man can have such a straight face saying them, can be so deadpan, that it might not be. Or that could just be his mild obsession talking. That's the problem.

But thinking of the other man encourages other, small, memories to bubble in flurries to the surface of his consciousness. The man's smile, the sun playing over him on a summer's day, carving deep shadows beneath his cheekbones, highlighting his elegant hands and the tendons in his arms. His voice when he's tired, doesn't particularly bother modulating it above a low drawl. Jesus.

Smith takes a shaky breath, freeing himself from his self-induced quagmire with some effort. He's in way too deep, but he can't bear the thought of leaving the brunet of his own accord, or just pulling himself away as best he can from the man who's inadvertently become the brightest point in his life. It's selfishness, he knows.

So Smith forcibly removes the brunet from his attention, instead trying to make his coursework his sole focus. It's difficult, his frustration slowly growing at the way his consciousness keeps snapping away from his work, ruffling him, making irritation bloom just under his skin like a bruise. Fuck. Three quarters of a page and nowhere near done.

He slams his hands to the table with a dull thump, leaning precariously back in the chair, neck bared and sighing once again. He feels the helpless anger bubbling up beneath his sternum and seizing his throat. He needs to do something. Feels like a fight. Shit. Anything to get rid of the unwanted adrenaline. He's so going to fail his course. He gulps down his coffee in one quick draught, grimacing at the lukewarm liquid, and sets it down with a shaking hand. 

He steps outside for a little while; there's a balcony - tiny, and with barely any room for the doors to open onto - and he squeezes so he's half in and half out. The cold is biting, even with his hoodie, and it chills the heat bubbling in his veins. He allows himself five minutes - surely five minutes out of his time is alright? - and let's the cold seep into him, watches bleak light filtering through thick cloud attempt to warm the winter-chilled ground. Today, the sun isn't winning. He avoids looking at his watch until anxiety whispers to him. Nausea begins twisting his stomach, and he gives in, returns to his essay. He's just barely holding the flames at bay.

He begins his exile to the page, once more. The words seem to flow with less reluctance, and he doesn't have to painstakingly construct and analyse the sentences in his mind. He doesn't bullshit and fill out the pages with unnecessary fluff. That'll lower his mark and waste time. He's doing well, he thinks. That is, until he hears the guitar.

Honestly, it's not ear-shattering - it's not even that loud - and that's the problem. If it were a higher volume, Smith could adapt and eventually block it out; get back on track with his writing.

But it's not. It's barely there. Because Trott knows Smith's working on his coursework, and the trouble he has with sticking to it. And so he's trying to keep quiet, for Smith. Ever the gentleman, is Chris Trott. Unfortunately, with the low volume, the occasional noticeable feature pulls him right out of his concentration.

So, quite often his ears catch a squealing high note, an interesting sequence of pitches, or a creative interval, and his brain latches on and begins cataloging all the other features he hears; dissonance, arpeggios, ascending chromatic runs, pinch harmonics. The ingenious and vicious techniques so central to metal music, the skill they're carried out with, and the inability to anticipate its structure, due to the atonality of the music, makes it thrilling. He shivers inadvertently, hairs on his arms lifting in response to some vestigial reflex of the unexpected resolutions of some of the solo's cadences.

Though Smith's never been a fan of the genre, it doesn't mean he can't appreciate the skill that goes into it. It's just he'd really love to get his essay finished on time. Fuck though, Trott's good. And it's really distracting.

He's only seen Trott play once, for a bare few seconds. Picked it up, played an incredibly fast riff, then dropped the guitar back onto his bed with a self-deprecating smile. Smith remembers his fingers dancing over the strings, the ligaments of his digits and wrists standing prominent from the skin. And he realised how skinny Trott was, in that moment. He's glad the man's taken to exercising. There's a solidity to him that there didn't used to be.

Smith's irritation flares again. He seriously needs to get this done - he promised himself he wouldn't leave it to the Sunday before, to not do things last minute and panic over it again - and to do so he really needs Trott to stop. Just for a bit longer. He's not thinking straight though - his head's an embarrassingly confused whirl of the brunet's hands and deadlines and brown eyes - Trott's hair - and sheer panic. And he's spoiling for a fight. His hands are trembling and he has to do something. Knows Trott's a black belt, knows he really would never hurt Trott, knows his ability to commit to things - let alone this - is weak. 

But he needs a distraction and an excuse to be close to the other man, and to allow the guy an excuse to pull away from Smith - seriously, if he goes through with this, Trott will never forgive him, which is not what he wants but is absolutely what he needs - and he pushes his chair back and stands in a rushed flurry of limbs anyway. Strides out of the room and clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists. The blood's pumping, adrenaline fizzing, and it's a relief, such a relief, to be able to dedicate his nervous energy somewhere. His socked feet make a muffled thumping that announces his arrival way in advance, but Smith doesn't care. 

He sounds purposeful. He doesn't feel it.

At the other man's room, Smith falters with his hand pushing down the handle, the thought of what he's actually trying to do here smacking whatever part of his brain feels remorse, almost stopping him dead in his tracks. But Trott's heard him, seen the handle move, and he can't just walk away. Trott'll ask him what the matter was, and he can't deal with sympathy and soft, chocolate, eyes. He needs fists like stones and irises brown and sharp like bottle glass.

These thoughts buoying him on, he puts on a veneer of confidence like he would hair gel - slimy and grotesque to touch, but it looks good, it must look good. Has to. Otherwise this won't work. The brunet will see right through him.

The door sweeps open with transferred momentum, thudding into the wall, revealing a small but cleanly room. Smith stops where he's barely entered the room, cataloging everything, the space available, with crazed eyes and heavy breaths that lift his shoulders. It's well-lit even with the grey weather, the light falling easily through a surprisingly large window bordered by grey curtains. There's a sturdy desk pressed to the wall on his right, meticulously kept, as is everything in the man's room, and beside that is the brunet's bed with dark blue sheets. The carpet is gratifyingly plush under his socked toes, and he unconsciously flexes them in the fibres.

Smith looks down at Trott, crouched with his back to him at the base of the bed. He looks so small like that, packing his guitar as carefully as he can with quickened movements into its case, hunched as he does so. He zips it shut with rough movements, and near lurches to standing in his haste to turn to greet the other man; it's obvious to Smith from the smile on Trott's face that he expected to be asked if he wanted to go out and do something. The open expression fades fast and his eyes shutter when he sees the coldness on Smith's.

Smith feels himself kick into a slightly more defensive mindset - sure, he still wants to do something, no matter how irrational, but the sharpness of the brunet's gaze as he assesses Smith's pose and body language in a split-second with a clinical detachment reminds him that Trott genuinely knows how to fight - and so he almost hovers in between wanting to throw either an inflammatory quip or sloppy-techniqued fist, or to wait for the brunet to ask what's wrong.

But he doesn't want to hear that voice now. 

He's dealing with his situation so poorly. All it is is a fucking essay. He's gonna do it, though. His excuse is that he wants to give Trott an out without actually explaining how he feels. Because knowing him, he'd manage to fuck that up too.

So he steps forward, not knowing what will happen, reaching forth to grab Trott's shoulders for some sort of purchase in an ill-executed jolt. He feels warmth against his right shoulder, at the curve of his waist on the left, and before his hands have even felt the thin material of the brunet's tee, he's been pulled to the right and pushed roughly backwards, so the tops of his legs hit the desk. Trott's so close for a moment, effort scrunching his features, that Smith almost can't bear not dipping his head down. And then he's stepped back, almost before he could process his urge. 

He takes a couple of deep breaths, jaw semi-open. Trott must take the lack of ranting and harsh words as him being winded or something. The man has his arms crossed defensively, and shoulders hunched, clutching at the fabric of his tee. He's withdrawn and small like that, again appearing tiny to Smith. And angry, in a concerned, bitter way, at Smith.

He seems to be waiting for Smith to explain to him - be it rationally, or through some flood of expletives - what he was trying to do. There isn't one though. Not one that would sound sane, or normal. A few awkward seconds more, disbelief evident on Trott's face, and seeing Smith's going to say nothing, he sneers. "What the fuck was that, Smith." His brows are knitted in consternation.

There's literally nothing he can say, though. Trott scans him hastily, looking to see if he'll make some sort of excuse, but he doesn't, and Trott scoffs, before moving to step away and turn his back to Smith. No. Don't, please?

Smith scrambles to turn Trott back to him with desperate grips to his shoulders, still plastered against the desk, and the brunet snaps around to glare at him. Smith would almost say the brunet slapped his arms away, but the movement has next to no effort behind it - there's an efficiency that Trott has in his body that comes from karate - so he knows not to take it as an attack.

But the smaller man steps back into his space, close - trying to intimidate Smith, he knows - and pulls him down by the front of his shirt. This isn't like Trott at all. Smith nearly loses his balance, reeling both physically and mentally. They're so close. Smith feels his palms sweating where he's clutching the desk's edge for balance. He can see striae and all the patches of differing brown in the man's eyes. Can see his lips. Where they're slightly reddened from Trott biting them. He reels his awareness back to a more general observation of the other man. But it's too late; Trott has already noticed where his focus lay.

Oh no. The brunet's stopped in his tracks, slowly releasing Smith from his hunched position, and dropping down from the balls of his feet. His head is tilted down, and Smith can't tell what the man's thinking. "Trott...?" It's tentative, quiet.

No reply.

"Trott?" Louder this time, just slightly. "Chris, are you okay?"

The shorter man releases his tee fully in a burst of speed, and looks back up to him. There's a vulnerability behind his eyes. He can see it; brittle and scared. But there's the subtle curve of hope to his lips. Smith's heart lurches. Maybe. It might be alright. "Trott-"

"Shut up." A warm palm plants on the back of his neck, pulls his head down desperately, and their lips are pressed together. It's rough, rushed, almost frenzied. Sloppy and disorganised, noses crushing against cheeks. They're both panting, and Smith can't resist pulling the shorter man against him. Contact between the full lengths of their bodies, after so long wanting from afar, is heavenly. He's drunk on their shared presence. Just wants to be closer. 

He scrabbles at Trott's trim waist, and the man understands the wordless demand, adjusting his stance so a thigh is pressed between Smiths, and the added pressure prompts groans to spill from both men's mouths. Smith presses his tongue to Trott's, before pulling away and dipping further to lave at the brunet's neck. He can feel the vibrations of Trott's wordless moan through the skin. Fuck. Everything is blurred away, his only point of focus the man plastered against his front. Trott shifts on his feet, stance changing, and the new pressure against Smith's cock makes him gasp.

It's going too fast. They can't do this here. Smith's all for them doing this, but they need to move to Trott's single bed, or something. His neck's beginning to hurt from stooping down. He slides his hands to the hem of Trott's top, rucking it up and trying to pull it over the man's head from a far-from-optimal position. The brunet reluctantly breaks away to strip the shirt quickly, throwing it into a graceless pile on the floor. Smith takes his off at the same time with hasty movements, and as soon as they're both bare chested, they're pressed right up against one another again. 

He revels in the feeling of skin on skin. He's not used to this, not used to his partner being equally flat-chested and broad-shouldered, but he doesn't mind at all.

Fingers trace the waistband of his jeans, find the button and pop it undone. Their situation and it's outcome suddenly sets in, bizarrely sobering. He looks back at Trott, struggling to keep some sense of awareness when all he wants is to slip into pleasure. Pitch-dark eyes lock with his, and with a devilish smile, the brunet undoes Smith's fly, eyes in contact the entire time. Smith hisses as the pressure on his arousal is released, and judging from Trott's growing smirk, the seemingly-accidental brush of fingers on his cock through his underwear was intentional. Smith gasps, slightly chocked.

Trott pulls them down, dropping to his knees as he does so, and looking back up from below his fringe. Good god. Smith has to look away, tilts his head back in an effort not to come just from seeing Trott there. Everything the man does must be designed to fuck with him. In so many ways. He shifts his balance at the other man's urging, so the jeans can be pulled off fully, and his socks too, and they're flung into the corner of the small room. He's left propping himself up against the desk with ardor-weakened legs as Trott rises back to stand. The man pulls his jeans off in haste, desperation to seek release with the other man in favour of playing with him stopping any teasing he might otherwise have done. 

Smith watches muscles shift beneath the other man's skin in his torso and arms as he balances and practically tears the restrictive trousers off, a grimace on his face when he undoes his fly, and then they're both stood practically naked in Trott's room, only their underwear protecting any remaining modesty.

Smith lurches forward, about to kiss Trott, when suddenly the world tips and he's falling backwards, adrenaline a sudden bloom in his veins. He bounces, the small mattress below him screeching in complaint, and he just barely manages to prop himself up on his elbows to attempt to complain about being pushed onto it when the brunet vaults lithely onto the bed to straddle him, grinning toothily, huffing a soft laugh as he situates himself above Smith like a photogenic gargoyle.

He braces his arms on Smith shoulders and pushes him flat to the bed, before lying flush on top of him, and setting to work licking along the taller man's neck, and kissing him wetly, before edging them with a hint of teeth. Smith shudders beneath the ministrations, clutching at the other man's hips and pulling their arousals against one another. They groan in tandem at the wave of pleasure that spreads through them, moving in careless unison. Trott's knee slips between Smith's legs, pushing them further open, and they're better able to grind against each other's thighs, their underwear pulling against their sensitive skin.

It suddenly strikes Smith, that Trott's on top; Trott's in charge. With how laid-back his flatmate is, whenever he had imagined them together - fantasies stolen in quiet moments - he'd always imagined himself as the dominant one; it's generally the only way he's experienced these things before, but he doesn't mind. He wants to challenge Trott, though, outlast him. He gathers the smaller man as close as he can and awkwardly manoeuvres them so Trott's sprawled on his back - looking confused, and not a little concerned - and he's balanced over the man. He leans down to resume their close contact, focussing on pressing against the brunet's cock while kissing him messily behind the jaw, pulling slightly at his ear, in an effort to speed them up. 

He feels a clumsy hand trail down across his stomach, and venture further, before curling firmly around his length. In that second, Smith's not there - he's nearly overcome and all his synapses are firing as he curses. He comes back, just in time to feel the brunet clasp a hand behind Smith's neck, hook a leg over his waist, and push off from the mattress with a twist of his body. Again, he feels the world shift from its axis, and they fall the short distance to the plushly-carpeted floor, amidst chaotically strewn clothing. And Smith's on his back again. Fuck. 

Trott leans down, kissing him with searing intensity, hand that was cradling his neck as they fell now entwined and pulling at his hair with a hint of pain that could be pleasure. Smith shivers as the man above him pulls his head to the side to bear his neck and sucks a livid bruise there. Holy shit, this is good. Ragged breaths slip from their mouths, and they grind against each other, chasing their pleasure as quickly as they can. They're almost there. And then Trott stops, moves to kneel. Smith is left reeling by the lack of contact. He opens his eyes and searches for the other man, looking to see what's wrong. The man looks fine, though. The hell?

Trott scrabbles at Smith's side in lieu of an explanation, then trying to gather his breaths, speaks in an arousal-roughened tone. "Turn over, sunshine." Smith frowns, his single-minded focus on achieving release striking him dumb, so he doesn't understand why. But he's pliant like this, and rolls over in the scattering of garments anyway. Lying face-down presses his arousal against the floor, and he can't help the involuntary twitches of his hips against the front of his boxers blotting reason from his mind. He distantly feels an arm slip around his waist, the other man grinding against his upper leg carelessly, breathing hotly at the nape of Smith's neck. The man's left arm is wrapped around Smith's upper chest, nails trailing red scores across his pale skin as they press as close as they can.

Their movements begin to falter - Smith's so close, so on edge, he can barely think. And then he's gone, pleasure a cascade of brief oblivion through him, and all he can feel is the other man writhing against him until he comes, a little while later. They're panting heaving breaths, skin sweat-tacky and warm, their boxers uncomfortably damp. Smith wouldn't have thought Trott could be this heavy, but he's reminded he's a five foot ten man, and his limbs are dead - of course he's heavy. But they lie for a while longer, pulling themselves back to full consciousness. Trott's cheek is resting against his shoulder, arms surely numbed from being pinned beneath their dual weight, and their sprawled half-embrace is a surprisingly sweet and gentle one.

After a while, Trott can't ignore the burgeoning pain in his arms, and pulls them from under Smith, painstakingly rising to sit back on his heels with a grunt, looking down at his boxers in distaste. Smith stays sprawled, glad to have Trott's weight off him, but missing the warmth. "Mate?" Smith blearily lifts his head to look at him in acknowledgement. "Mate, I need to take a shower...?" There's no innuendo to the words; he's not propositioning Smith again.

The taller man smiles slowly, registering the careful question that Trott hasn't quite voiced. The brunet's wondering what they are? Is this a once-off, will they fuck but avoid a relationship, or will they... what? Be boyfriends? 

Smith slowly draws himself up, pulling his limbs back into cooperating with his brain's requests, and leans to hug the brunet, dropping his head to Trott's shoulder and feeling the man's hair tickle his skin. "Sure, let's do that." He smiles when the brunet holds him closer, and then they move to stand, in a mess of limbs hands clasped together. Smith feels like a teenager again.

The shower is a decent size, just about enough room for two people to fit comfortably. They both take their underwear off, waiting for the water to heat to a comfortable temperature. Smith takes the opportunity to watch Trott. He never considered, that even if he ever had sex with Trott, that he'd actually be able to do this; to see Trott like this. The man's surprisingly sturdy and well-built, just usually dwarfed when they go out, most of the time with their friends, primarily Ross. Trott's checking the water now, while Smith leans casually against the sink, a strange mirror of earlier, when he was against the desk, and unsure of whether he'd fucked this whole thing up. 

Trott makes a small noise of accomplishment, the water beading across the back of his palm where it's held inside the cubicle finally meeting requirements, and he turns to Smith, smile a fond echo of Smith's own. He beckons to Smith with an easy flick of his right hand.

They stand under the water in the shower for a while, embraced and leaning against the other. Water runs in warm rivulets down skin, darkening and making heavy their hair. They both wash themselves, not really touching the other any more than running a hand casually along an arm or side, feeling surprisingly bashful in the wake of what they've just done. Smith's not concerned about that. They have so much time to get to know each other - why rush it. He want's to do this right. 

They lean together again for a little while, water warming their bones.

Trott pulls himself up to kiss Smith chastely on the lips, before reaching behind him to the shampoo bottle on the little indent in the wall that acts as a shelf. He doesn't miss that the brunet uses his own shampoo; it's something zesty, citrusy, bright and just so Trott. He closes his eyes as the brunet works the cold gel through the strands of his hair, and sinks to his knees so he can rest the side of his face against the man's midriff, his arms wrapped around the man's legs. It's calming, wonderfully so, the brunet's nails scritching at his scalp, across his temples, over the base of his skull, lightly. Smith thinks he could fall asleep like this.

A few minutes later, the suds admittedly having been washed from his hair for a while, Trott begins washing his own hair. Smith is about to stand up and take over, but Trott sets soap-slippery hands on his shoulders and playfully glares at Smith until he stops. Knowing he won't win their tame battle of wills, Smith returns to his earlier position, hugging the other man with his face pressed to his front. He can hear the drumming of water on the plastic shower base, and where his ear is flat to the man's abdomen, can just about hear the calming beat of his heart. While Trott leans back to rinse the shampoo from his hair, so it doesn't run down him and get in Smith's eyes, the taller man can feel the subtle stretch and gather of the man's muscles. 

There's something so relaxing, so gratifying, about being able to do this; to just share space and contact with no expectation and need to do anything more. The difference between Smith now, and when he was in the quagmire of coursework, is astounding. He's so happy to have this, and his sternum aches in the sudden realisation that he really does have this, now - and he can have it for as long as Trott is happy to have him. Smith's smile cracks brightly across his face, and he has no ability to stop it; he just nuzzles against the other man's skin, content for the first time in so long. Smith can't believe what a lucky bastard he is.

He hears a low chuckle from Trott, and then feels the man's humming begin, deep in his throat and chest, as the man rests his arms in a loop over his shoulders. They stay like that for as long as they can spare the hot water.


End file.
